They were shocked. He had talked to them using words, like they were primitives who couldn’t telepath. Telling them to talk among themselves: it was dirty, crude and so physical. But as original as you would expect from an artist who wrote books with words.

George heard the announcer explain that buses would now complete the journey. At the station he was one of three-hundred people in monsoon like rain. When buses did arrive George became part of the mob leaving the weak and loaded to struggle.

Dad worked hard, His family came first. If he had to work two jobs to pay bills he did. No matter how tired he was he would always help me when I struggled with school work. Stroking my frowns away he would whisper ‘always follow the sun.’ I miss him.